The Sneak
by fiasse
Summary: Disregarded as heir and left without Reborn's tutelage, the inexorable thread of fate draws Sawada Tsunayoshi into the mafia. Even as he tries to fade into the background and cringes from the darkness of the mafia, he is dragged into the past and put to the test as a candidate for the Tenth Boss of Vongola.
1. Prologue

_"The first headquarters of the Vongola Famiglia resided in the outskirts of Palermo in Sicily, and was relocated in 1929 when the rapidly growing numbers of the group proved too large for the mansion of the Vongola Primo to house. The first headquarters was burned down during a particularly violent gun fight in the 1940s with the Dicicardo family. _

_The new headquarters is located in Messina and has been standing strong ever since Vongola moved in. Vongola HQ is a massive area spanning seventeen square miles, including an eighteen hole golf course, five gun ranges, a training facility and four heated, Olympic-sized pools. _

_The main building itself is a work of architecture, rivaled only by the White House as an office building. This is the Don Vongola's home and office, where his family and Family reside in. It becomes the center of his life the moment he takes up the mantle. The Vongola Boss' office is the most spectacular and noteworthy room in the building, even the ballroom of pure marble and the dining hall that opens up to the heavens cannot compare. _

_Left untouched since it was first unveiled, the room is roughly ten meters across; all plush red carpeting and cream walls. The room is semicircular, with floor to ceiling windows stretching through the circumference of half the room, leading out to a balcony overseeing the gardens. Expensive paintings from all eras are hung on its walls; collectors would pay and arm and leg just to see some of these pictures. _

_The Don's work desk is handcrafted by a master, dark rosewood, a heavy, antique affair costing an estimated USD $12,700,000, perhaps the most expensive item in the room yet. Purchased in the Sixth's time in the office, the desk is carved from single piece of wood and is said to be able to deflect bullets…" _

- _Vongola: the Present Past, 2045 edition, by Jacob Riley _

* * *

Reborn was having a bad day –a rarity for him, since he always believed in taking control of things with his own hands, but there was no other way to describe the last few hours. He woke with a massive hang over, couldn't find his trademark fedora, he left his bullet cartridges in his suit and put it in the wash, had one of the CEDEF members put a bullet through his phone when they could not identify him without his hat and was now listening to the CEDEF leader's woes and worries. And it wasn't even noon yet.

"My poor, cute little son," Iemitsu bawled. How the man had risen to his position was beyond Reborn. Crossing his arms over his chest, Reborn tapped his foot impatiently as he watched the crumpled mess of man on the carpeted floor. Iemitsu had greeted him into his office jovially, his tanned face in an excessively wide smile. Then he called for his new secretary to get Reborn a coffee, excitedly boasting to Reborn about his wife-cum-secretary's excellent coffee, dissolving into a likeness of a love-struck teen.

He explained about how it pained him so to have left his beautiful, lovely wife and his adorable child in Japan for the past twenty years and how joyous it was to finally live together with his beloved again. Then Iemitsu had abruptly collapsed, mourning the loss his child. At first, Reborn had thought Iemitsu's son to be dead and offered his condolences, only to find that the kid had applied for and been accepted to a school in Florence; _without telling his parents_.

If he did not have a reputation to retain, the hit man would have buried his face in his hands in exasperation. "He's going to Florence University to study. _Tuscany!_ That's halfway across the country from here!" The man's distress was annoying and made Reborn was to blow his brains out of his head; assuming that there was anything to shoot out.

"He was in Japan," Reborn pointed out. "He was halfway around the world from the beginning. Florence is closer to Sicily than Japan."

"He said he didn't want to come here because he didn't want people to know that I was his father," Iemitsu wailed, not listening to anything Reborn said. "Where have I gone wrong?" _If I were him, I would have done the same_, Reborn frowned, distaste evident in his eyes._ In fact, I pity the kid for having a father like that. _

A pretty, middle-aged woman with short brown hair offered Reborn a cup of coffee before reaching down to pat her husband's back. "Tsu-kun said, 'You couldn't have done anything wrong because _you were never here_. You didn't seem to have a problem with leaving mother and I in Japan, so I don't see why you should care.' It wasn't your fault at all, Papa!" At this, the man seemed to brighten up. Apparently, neither of them had caught on to their son's true meaning despite the fact that he practically smacked it into their faces.

_I think it was completely his fault_, Reborn kept to himself. The sooner the man recovered from being a blubbering mess, the sooner he could get his orders.

"But," Nana said contemplatively, and Reborn wondered, for a brief moment, if she had suddenly caught on to her son's displeasure before dismissing the possibility of such a thing. She had thought Iemitsu was a construction worker working abroad for _twenty years_, despite the absurd amount of money he sent back and occasional postcards from dubious locations. "Tsu-kun became like a different person since two years ago. Suddenly, he put in effort into his studies and work. It wasn't as if he was stupid, but Tsu-kun has Papa's laziness. But since then, he's been acing his tests, studying and reading a lot, as if he suddenly found a goal."

Reborn raised a brow. Sawada Tsunayoshi was a candidate for boss, though he wasn't a real competitor due to his inability pass tests, complete lack of physical ability and competence. No one had him on surveillance for a while now, but he had heard that the child was completely useless. However, according to Nana, it seems that his intelligence was outdated. The boy was now attending a course in international law in the University of Florence, which was quite a feat for someone who could not pass a single math test three years ago. If the shit hits the fan, he may truly become a candidate for boss, Reborn mused.

"Because of his heartless abandonment of his father, your mission is to keep watch on my son!" Iemitsu suddenly declared with a flourish of his hand.

Reborn was a smart man. He knew that disobeying a direct order from a superior was not something a normal or intellectually competent hit man would do. But then Reborn was not normal. He was the _world's best hit man_ damn it, and he was not about to babysit Iemitsu's kid. Rolling his eyes uncharacteristically, he ran a hand through his messy hair, missing his hat immensely. Then he squared his shoulders and glared hard enough to burn holes as he drew his loaded gun.

"Iemitsu, I do hope you know the consequences of calling me without a good reason."

* * *

This is a prologue, so it's rather shorter than the actual chapters, so bear with me. Information about updates will be on my profile page.


	2. Chapter 1: He's No James Bond

**Chapter 1: He's No James Bond**

* * *

_A white dot blinks, going from left to right. Reaching the end, the dot opens up into a gun's rifling, the spiral grooves of the gun going towards the light. Through the barrel of the gun, a man walked by._

_It was a man that walked though the white void of nothingness, clad in a crisp suit. He walks from the right to the left, his strong profile like a silhouette against the white. _

_He turns towards you quickly –silently. With nary a wasted movement, he draws his pistol and a gunshot is heard. Blood spills over the vision and the gun barrel dissolves back into the white dot. The white circle moves across the screen, wavering, and eventually settles into the corner._

_It expands, blinding white exploding into a scene of the aforementioned man sitting beside a tanned, curvaceous woman at a bar counter. His lips were twisted in a perpetual frown, but that only seemed to enhance the grey-blue of his eyes and sharp angles of his jaw. His hair was jet black and fell over his right brow, showing only slight signs of graying at the temples. The man offers the woman a smirk as he downs his Vesper in one go, then sets the glass on the smooth table as the brown-eyed beauty watches him with tears in her eyes. The graying man does not offer her any comfort, instead picking up the tab and briskly walking away from the bar –away from her. _

_The woman calls out his name in a desperate sob, but he does not look back, his angular features set in steel as he adjusts the golden cufflinks on the sleeves of his suit. He crosses the bar while drawing various appreciative and considering looks from women, but he pays them no heed, heading straight for the door. He was a man on a mission. _

_― Opening to the 48__th__ James Bond film, The Darkest Day, directed by Javier Ross._

* * *

Yamamoto Takeshi grimaced as he packed the last of his clothes into his luggage. He looked around his empty room, stripped of its posters of baseball stars and personal photos.

They were leaving Japan.

The fact had yet to sink in, even though his father had dropped the bomb nearly two months ago. His father wanted to move to Italy with him and wanted him to continue his studies there. That was somewhat acceptable, though he had hell going over his Italian again, polishing it until he was adequately fluent. His father also used to work in Italy as a professional assassin/murderer, and wanted to go back to the country and have some connection to the world of action that he had left behind. That was _somewhat_ acceptable.

He also wanted Takeshi to inherit the _Shigure Soen_ Sword Style. _That_ was not acceptable.

Not being one to think ahead, Takeshi couldn't really grasp the concept of killing someone for good. It was so contradictory, and he believed ―wanted to believe that his father was a good person, so he trusted his dad when the elder Yamamoto said that he'll understand when 'the time is right'. He was in a state of denial, but Yamamoto Tsuyoshi was the only family Takeshi had left, and Takeshi couldn't bring himself to leave him, even if he turned out to be a mass-murderer.

Besides, he couldn't really _force_ Takeshi to hurt or kill someone, so he was content in playing along with his dad and trained kendo diligently. Kendo was not anywhere near as fun as baseball, but it made Tsuyoshi happy and that was all that mattered. Yet he had been in Namimori for all of his life and the idea of leaving never even crossed his mind when he considered his future options. He had thought of going pro once he finished university with a baseball scholarship…

He sat on his suitcase, desperately trying to stuff in eighteen years worth of things into it, biting his lip back as he remembered that he might never see his friends again, never hang out with them after baseball practice. He blinked back involuntary tears, before, with great difficulty, squeezing in the remainder of his belongings.

The time for brooding was long over, he chided himself; he had two months to do so, and now was certainly not the time to get sentimental. With that in mind, Yamamoto Takeshi slung his duffle over his shoulder and wheeled his baggage out the door of his room, exiting the door for the very last time.

Tsuyoshi stood in the middle of the kitchen of the sushi shop, lovingly polishing the last of his knives before packing them away. The store had been open until only a few hours ago; Tsuyoshi wanted to work here in this shop, where he had met Takeshi's mother, where he had worked for the past eighteen years, until the very last moment.

He had brought a lot of joy with his work. The blade carving through marbleized fish, eliciting praise and expressions of joy as he watched his customers, giving him a sense of satisfaction that was unsurpassed by any other.

_The blade carving through flesh and bones and eyes, eliciting shrieks of horror and pleas for mercy that flowed from their lips like blood did from the wounds, ignored and unheard as he watched passively, giving him a sense of-_

"Takeshi!" He smiled when he saw Takeshi walk into the kitchen. It was a sunny, bright smile, one that caused people to remark on how similar they were. And Takeshi loved that because he wanted to become just like his father who raised him and showered him with enough love so that it numbed the pain of losing his mother. He admired his father; he was the sole breadwinner of their little family, had cared for Takeshi when his mother died, handled household affairs and always visited both sets of Takeshi's grandparents biweekly. He had fulfilled his duty as a father and a son all with a sunny little smile.

It was the same sunny smile that his mother had fallen in love with, the same sunny smile that he had inherited from his father, the same sunny smile that had greeted him for nearly every morning in the eighteen years of his life.

_The same sunny smile that adorned his face as his katana glinted, eyes unforgiving despite the superficial expression of mirth, bearing down on the helpless-_

"Are you sure they'll let you take those knives? Maybe you should just leave them here." Leave them for the pair of workers that now would manage the sushi bar. Takeshi leaned on the wooden counter, elbows on the surface and chin propped up on his palms.

Tsuyoshi shook his head. "I'm keeping them with me, one way or another. These were given to me by your mother."

"Your mother was pregnant with you at the time, and your grandfather insisted that I learn how to make sushi…" This perked Takeshi's interest. His father was an excellent storyteller and he was especially drawn to tales of the woman he had never met, yet was so integrally a part of his life. Idly, he wondered if going to Italy would spark more of these stories; Takeshi knew this father and mother had been to Italy for the their honeymoon, lived there for a year before returning to Japan for Takeshi's birth.

Takeshi could piece together everything, even if his father didn't tell him everything. His father had been working for organized crime even after coming to Japan. That meant that his mother had likely known his occupation. In fact, had his mother not died during childbirth, his father might have never hung up his sword, never stayed in Japan…

_The call for danger went out and delicate, feminine fingers searched for the pistol under the counter, clicking off the safety as she raised it level to the man's head, the eyes he has only seen in pictures narrowing- _

"Are you alright, Takeshi?"

He blinked, then grinned. "Oh yeah, I'm just feeling a little nostalgic. I just remembered that there's a kid from the other class, Sawada, who is going to Italy too. Wonder if I'll see him."

Tsuyoshi pursed his lips. "Italy's a big place, I doubt it. We should be going off now," he added, stowing the box of knives away. "Or we'll be late." Takeshi nodded, casting a final, backward glance at the sushi bar. Suddenly, he didn't mind leaving the place so much anymore.

* * *

She hummed thoughtfully as she paused in her typing, drumming her fingers against the table. She smiled as she leaned across to tap her fellow trainee on the shoulder.

"Hana, do you think you could go through the interrogation with me again?" The slightly intimidating woman twirled a strand of dark, curly hair over her finger, nodding in agreement to her request as she stood, resting an arm of Kyoko's chair.

The witness was a plump, thirty something mother to a girl who was now being held hostage. The Hana in the video drew out answers from her in silky, professional tones, reassuring when the woman needed it, squeezing the woman dry of every last bit of information.

Hana squinted at it. "See this bit here? She keeps hesitating and listen to the way she words her sentences. She doesn't want to say anything definitively, but whatever she knows, she is being very careful about it in case she gets it wrong. Judging from-"

Sasagawa Kyoko hadn't really imagined this as her career. She knew she was a looker, all shiny chestnut hair and wide, doe eyes, so she had briefly toyed with the idea of modeling, but scrapped it almost immediately when she realized she wouldn't be able to eat much, if any, cake. There wasn't anything in particular she wanted to do. Joining Hana in attending a course in psychology was mainly due to peer pressure.

When Hana was offered an interview for internship in Vongola Enterprises, Kyoko had tagged along and both were accepted. It was only later that they realized they had been roped into the mafia. It had been a little frightening at first, but her work was kept separate from the action and blood and her missions so far have been quite mild and unimportant.

Hana, on the other hand, took it in stride. Her no-nonsense manner and efficiency made her popular among her peers and superiors and enabled her to stare down mobsters in an interrogation room. Kyoko followed her lead the best she could, though she was far more comfortable with the paperwork, her sweet smiles and girlish manner made her the perfect person for putting people off-guard. She even managed to socialize with mobsters in a small get together that was held a few weeks back.

Perhaps she ought to do therapy within the Vongola instead, she mused. Nevertheless, that could wait for later, when she graduated and had achieved some degree of recognition for her work. The urgent beeping from the office phone startled her out of her thoughts.

"We lost the signal of the solo investigative unit. We believe he might have engaged the criminals. The Poison Scorpian Bianchi wants details on the hostages and the general location of the criminals as soon as possible."

Phone now set on speaker, her fingers flew across the keyboard, drawing up a map of the city, a blinking red dot showing the last place the mercenary they had hired was sighted. On the outskirts of the city… "Hana," she called. "I'm drawing up information of all possible locations that might be used as their base. Please check for phone signals in the area and local reports for stolen items within the last week-" But she was already on it, barking orders into the phone as she multitasked.

Kyoko frowned. That identification code for the single investigative agent, wasn't that-? "Sir," Kyoko addressed the man on the phone. "I believe we need to change the danger level for this mission…"

Sasagawa Kyoko hadn't really imagined this as her career. But it was alright, because this was not too bad either.

* * *

Sawada Tsunayoshi was no James Bond fan. It was just _so_ horribly unrealistic. Even if he had started watching the movies when he was seven, it wasn't all that hard to tell that it was all made up. Really, that man gets whatever gadgets he needs, uses every gadget issued, can bluff his way through poker with experienced veterans, shoot a man from three miles away with a handgun and always, _always_ gets the bad guy to sit in the ejector seat. I mean, _come on_!

Not to mention the fact that he always gets the girl, even if she was lesbian or hated men or tried to kill him; _especially_ if they tried to kill him. Even if the women were psychotic, they'd all fall head over heels for the man despite knowing he goes through women like his mother Nana went through tissues in a cheesy romance movie. James Bond was forty, but he could still dodge bullets and run on walls. He even had his own theme song. The only thing he was missing was the ability to change clothes in a brilliant flash of light and blast his enemies with pink glitter.

Despite his blatant dislike for the man immortalized in movies, Sawada Tsunayoshi found himself wondering if James Bond ever felt this nervous before a mission. He peeked down the dirty little alleyway, looking for a man that matched the description the Millefiore's Byakuran had given him.

His temporary partner was a Japanese man too, Moichida. He was a tall, lean kind of man, in his early twenties, with a look about him that Tsuna had no doubt was popular with women. But he also, Tsuna noted, was not a nice person. There was something just _mean_ about his expression and the way he held himself. He reminded Tsuna of his bullies back in Namimori, the ones that would steal his lunch and ran away from the Disciplinary Committee because they were such cowards. He was also, for some reason, wearing a suit.

This impression was only strengthened when he snorted in Tsuna's face and called him a runt. He immediately installed himself as the leader of the two and Tsuna, deciding that there was no sense in trying to argue with the obstinate, arrogant fellow, acceded without protest.

The meeting place in question was a fashionable Italian restaurant on the wealthier side of town, classy, expensive and not somewhere that Tsuna, with his meager allowance, would be able to afford. He began to regret wearing an old baseball shirt and jeans, feeling very out of place, especially next to the crisply suited Moichida. But he had expected them to be fighting or something; out in the open, in a struggle to the death.

The restaurant, rather ironically, Tsuna thought, specialized in foods featuring clams. Baked, stir-fried, roasted and deep-fried; if you wanted it, they'd have it. They were greeted by a hostess at the door and Tsuna was given a incongruous tie to allow him to meet the dress code. Flushing brightly, he put it on and it hung loosely over his Yomiuri Giants shirt as both the hostess and Moichida laughed, though the former much more kindly than the other.

The floors of the restaurant were carpeted and a giant, intricate and intimidating chandelier hung from above, crystals like lit dewdrops upon the gold structure. Every table was covered by a cloth of white and gold that looked suspiciously of silk, a set of candles and a single rose between them.

It was, Tsuna reflected, the kind of place where you expected that recommendation person. That one that told you what wine to take with what food or what food to take with what wine and had a special school. It started with an S… A summer… Some-something…

Tsuna must have spoken his thoughts out loud as a rough voice answered him. "A sommelier, dumbass." It wasn't, as he had expected, Moichida, but a tall, silver haired boy that couldn't be much older than Tsuna himself. There was a scowl on his face, a truly unpleasant expression, not unlike Moichida in that alone, as if he had something smelly under his nose.

He was much more good looking though. He had a strong jaw, striking, bright green eyes and silvery hair that fell to his chin; he was no doubt European, with his tall, sharp nose and light hair color. Tsuna remembered the list of requirements that he had been sent: _Preferably with an impeccable Italian descent and at least three generations of crime involvement…_

By this time, Tsuna had already followed Moichida and the hostess all the way into the VIP section of the restaurant, which was milling with people, more than half of which had appearances that seemed to be announcing to world that they were a part of the mafia.

From somewhere behind, a man rudely exclaimed: "You aren't Italian! You are Chinese! What kind of idiot are you, expecting to get into the mafia like you stand a chance!" Tsuna briefly wondered if he ought to correct the man. Moichida, for all his earlier bravado, was slinking away submissively. The person in question was a heavy-set, broad shouldered man dressed in an expensive silk button down. "And you!" An accusing finger was pointed towards the silver haired teen. "A half-blood degenerate and bastard child has no business in trying to join Vongola!"

_The Smokin' Bomb_, Gokudera Hayato, Tsuna recognized with a start. The infamous mercenary who started his bloody career the day he turned ten, who left the _Family_ for which his father was the right-hand man. His temper was not done justice by the rumors. "I'm a quarter Japanese," he retorted with an animalistic snarl. "Besides," he sneered. "Least the rest of me is Italian! You're from Northern Italy; you're not Italian, you're German-Austrian*, retard!"

Things were probably going to get ugly soon, Tsuna reflected. There were whispers from the other candidates and a strange exclamation asking an octopus to be quiet, but the general atmosphere was one of impending chaos. He, therefore, chose this moment to speak up. In the last few years while attempting to pull his grades up, Tsuna had a rule to (hopefully) accelerate his rate of improvement: raise your hand to every question if you could answer it. Perhaps it was some sort of strange brain washing that had been unconsciously applied to him, but he raised his hand when he spoke now.

"Actually," his voice rang loud and clear, his hand in the air, as if he were a kindergarten child with the right answer to the teacher's question. "We're all from Africa." There was a deadly silence and a few groans. "I mean," he continued, "it's not like it makes a difference anyway. Even if you're from Antarctica, you'd still die if someone shot you in the head." The previously enraged man stood rigid from where he stood, staring at Tsuna like he was struck dumb.

Slow, condescending applause came from behind him and Tsuna whipped around in an instant, startled by the lack of presence.

She was a very beautiful sort of woman and very obviously Caucasian. Reddish hair like silk, startling green eyes and a figure that was both willowy and shapely. She was all seductive, cat-like grace; sultry, half mast eyes and pouty lips, no doubt the very image of a femme fatale. She was wearing a pair of goggles over her eyes, though they did not so much as conceal her identity as draw attention towards herself.

"Quite right," she praised, still clapping in that patronizing, haughty way. "The keyword to the requirements is 'preferably'. A flawless pedigree and wealthy connections aren't enough to secure you a position in the mafia anymore. Besides, the requirement was only put in place because foreigners attract more attention for a station in Florence, which is not something a crime syndicate needs."

Not true, Tsuna inwardly protested. There were probably purist factions in Vongola, large as it was, who'd only work with Italians. The family history of crime ensured that if you sold out the Family, you'd also be selling out your _family_. Rather dirty, in Tsuna's opinion.

But there was no way he was going to argue with the Poison Scorpion Bianchi in the middle of a mob of would-be Mafioso. Who were, he noted uncomfortably, staring at her with shining adoration in their eyes that he felt was more like the way his eight year old neighbor looked at superman than any sign of lust. Hero-worship; that was rich.

There were only a few exceptions. There was Tsuna himself, of course. Then there was Gokudera who was staring at the famous assassin with eyes gleaming with mistrust and doubtfulness. Then there was an odd, white haired man in the back of the room who screamed: "Extremely nice to meet you!"

While everyone turned to stare, Tsuna slunk back into the crowd without any attention whatsoever. Even his so called partner, Moichida, didn't see him. Unlike most of the people here, Tsuna, in a strange, twisted sort of way, was normal. He hated bloodshed and had common sense, possessed a sense of fear and wasn't very striking in appearances. Unless he opened his mouth or tripped spectacularly, no one noticed him. Byakuran had said that this ability would either guarantee his position as a reconnaissance infiltrator or give him a perfectly normal, uneventful life.

Bianchi briefly explained the test. They each had tasks to do, depending on whatever position they signed up for. Reconnaissance, retrieval, administrative support, medical support, front-liners… Each of them were asked to go to their seats, all marked with their names and were instructed to keep the phone that was placed on their plates. It was a phone, a sleek, black thing and completely unmarked. The name 'Sawada Tsunayoshi' was shown on the phone's screen.

"From this point on, this is how you are to communicate with each other; everybody's numbers are already inside the phone, with their roles stated inside the contact information. The tasks you are to do are detailed inside the phone and is to be kept with you at all times. If we need to contact you, we will through this phone. The results of your testing will also be sent through that phone. I will not lie to you, not all of you will pass and not all of you will come back alive. Your task begins now."

At once, the room exploded into loud chatters and several of them began to argue. Some of them were seeking alliances, others had already formed some. There were a few seeking people tasked with the same job. Tsuna checked his list.

He was, apparently, one of three doing scouting. Moichida was a front-liner, that Gokudera Hayato was part of the retrieval team… _Poison Scorpion Bianchi ―Examiner: Number Unavailable_. He snuck out of the restaurant before anyone could approach him. He drew a few looks from the actual patrons of the restaurant as the door to the VIP booth slid shut silently, but no one _in_ the room had noticed him going, with the exception of, perhaps, the veteran hit men examining him alongside Bianchi.

The streets of Florence were bright and bustling with life. People walked on the streets without a care in the world, chattering happily and going on their way. The architecture was gorgeous; stone brick buildings and balconies that overlooked the streets, the abundance of spacious squares that peppered the city. There wasn't enough sun to make it unbearably hot, but just enough that it gave the streets and the people on it the air of wakeful, infectious energy.

Tsuna tossed the phone in the air then caught it, eyeing it contemplatively. Truthfully, he was feeling a bit anxious. Infiltrating the mafia and supplying information to Europol, or, more specifically, their branch Millefiore. He was sought out by them the day after he turned sixteen, when he discovered an odd flyer in his letter box. It seemed a bit dubious at first, but Uni had visited him in his house and brought him to meet Byakuran and the rest of the group.

It all snowballed from there.

He plowed through his school work and worked on his physical ability, forcing himself to do more than necessary. Learning Italian was surprisingly smooth, which Tsuna found strange since his English was horrendous. He took up aikido and took to the gym, running laps around the neighborhood every morning. His rate of improvement was astounding; teachers took to having him take his examinations in a separate room and searching him to ensure he wasn't cheating. He was less 'no-good' and more invisible.

His grades were much higher than average by the time he graduated. He learnt to shoot a gun and five ways to kill a man with his bare hands. He could disappear in a crowd, pick pockets like a pro and knew the crime sheet of every mafia man known to Europol like the back of his hand. He still couldn't shoot the antenna off an ant, hack into encrypted files or take down a hundred men in ten minutes. But Tsuna didn't mind; he wouldn't have to. (But he would later find out that he was wrong.)

If he was being honest with himself, Tsuna was not confident at all. He had only been trained at basic combat and still flinched when he fired a gun. His good instincts, or as Uni teasingly called it, 'female intuition', made up for that, but he still wasn't sure he'd make it out of this alive.

But he needed this. Finding a direction in life had given Tsuna confidence and energy and he wasn't about to give that up just because he was afraid. He needed… He needed to catch up to his father. Even though he hated the man for leaving their family and never coming back, part of Tsuna also admired him. Iemitsu… He wasn't stupid, as much as he pretended to be; Tsuna knew he raked in more than they would spend, more than Tsuna would've believed. When he came back, men in suits followed him around. He rode first class on planes and rarely contacted them.

Tsuna was sure that his father was doing nearly the same thing as he was. Likely the CIA, or perhaps something like the FBI. Tsuna wanted to be better than that stupid old man. He would prove himself to be more capable, more talented, a better man than his father ever was. Tsuna was protected by the people around him and, he believed, his father. But he was useless and a liar and never loved him or Nana enough to even call once in a while.

And maybe, once his father saw that Tsuna wasn't useless, wasn't No-Good anymore, he'd actually come to love him, actually go home once in a while.

In his office in Sicily, the CEDEF leader gave a great sneeze.

* * *

Laughing, Byakuran leaned back into his seat as he put his phone away.

Uni looked to him curiously from where she was sipping her tea and Irie Shouichi frowned. The open air café, while perhaps not the best place for a man wanted by seventeen mafia families to date, served excellent hot chocolate and would give extra marshmallows when asked. Hence, Byakuran insisted on stopping by there for lunch at least once a week.

"Moichida has lost Tsunayoshi. He thinks he's dead." Mirthful giggled escaped his cold, white lips. "How underestimated our little Tsunayoshi is."

Shouichi choked on his biscotti and at Uni's side, Gamma visibly stiffened. He paused, then voiced out his concerns. It might be true that he hadn't yet seen the boy in action, but he was little more than a child and it was uncertain that he would be able to be ruthless when the situation called for it. "Are you sure that boy-?"

A contemplative hum from the white clad princess brought his question to a halt. "Being underestimated is one of his greatest strengths. But Tsuna isn't going to contact us until something happens; he's too prudent to do otherwise." She stirred at her tea.

Byakuran smiled a Uni with a pleasantness that didn't reach his eyes. Really, his second-in-command was so interesting. Barely fourteen and she was showing far more insight than her loyal dog would ever possess. Looks were deceiving; Uni was more dangerous than Gamma and his underlings put together.

A flawless complexion, large, bright eyes and a saccharine smile on her lips… She was collected, charismatic and ruthless. Byakuran didn't think that he had ever met anyone more dangerous. Excepting, perhaps, Sawada Tsunayoshi. Uni moved to tuck a stray end of blue-black hair into her large, white cap. "Did he say what the test was about?"

"The escaped Rokudo Mukuro. And not to mention, Tsunayoshi is going to do reconnaissance~"

Shouichi knocked down his chair in his haste to the bathroom, muttering about stress and cramps. Gamma looked startled, but Byakuran was more interested in Uni's expression. Her expression stilled, but didn't change in the slightest. Yes, Byakuran decided. This was going to be so much fun.

* * *

*Truthfully, Gokudera's at least a quarter North Italian descent too, seeing as he inherited his fair looks and light hair from his mother.

(Northern Italy experienced invasions from the Germans, so most have mixed blood and generally have fairer complexions compared to the darker skinned Southern Italians. Some Southern Italians believe themselves 'true' Italians since they were part of the ancient Kingdom of Sicily. Those from Sicily even identify themselves as Sicilian before Italian. Legally, they are all considered to be of Italian ethnic.)


	3. Chapter 2: Initiation

**Chapter 2: Initiation**

* * *

_Applied Position: Reconnaissance_

_Mission: Allied Families' Recruitment Test: 2017_

_Primary Target: To provide other candidates with information on a group of escaped convicts to best allow for the other candidates to infiltrate the base, retrieve the hostages taken and take out the convicts in question for Vendicare custody. Where possible, assist other candidates in fulfilling their mission as well. _

_Basic Information: Seven convicts have escaped Vendiche Prison on March 15, 2017. (For their appearance, refer to labeled pictures) Estimated number of hostages: three, including a teenage girl, a boy younger than 15 and a man in his late twenties to early thirties. It is unknown if the hostages are still alive or if any new hostages have been taken. The freelance hitman, Hibari Kyouya, was also reported to have entered the base and has currently lost contact with his support team. If alive, he is to be retrieved as well. The base is located in the abandoned building of the old Kokuyo Funland in Florence. (Refer to navigation system) Duration of their residence there is unknown. _

_Rokudo Mukuro: Leader of the convicts and an illusionist. Noted to be exceedingly sly and crafty. Convicted for selling Mafia secrets to other Families and the law enforcement, murder of innocents and breaking the Omerta._

_Joshima Ken: Has the ability to mimic certain animal-like qualities. Convicted for aiding Rokudo Mukuro in the selling Mafia secrets to other Families and the law enforcement, murder of innocents and breaking the Omerta._

_Kakimoto Chisuka: User of poison darts. Convicted for aiding Rokudo Mukuro in the selling Mafia secrets to other Families and the law enforcement, murder of innocents and breaking the Omerta._

_M.M.: User of hypnotic abilities. Convicted for aiding Rokudo Mukuro in the selling Mafia secrets to other Families and the law enforcement, murder of innocents and breaking the Omerta._

_Birds: Uses birds as informants. Convicted for theft of Mafia secrets and planning the murder of innocents._

_Jiji and Djidji: Twins, known lackeys of Birds. Convicted for aiding Birds in the theft of Mafia secrets and murder of innocents._

_Chief Examiner: 'The Poison Scorpion' Bianchi _

_Equipment: 1 Handgun (Either the Browning Hi-Power, Beretta 92 _or Tisas ZIGANA T_) or 1 Rifle (Either the H&K G36 or M40), 5 sets of cartridges of your choice, a flip blade and an 8 inch dagger. Access to Vongola Support Crew. (See contacts; Support and Logistics__― S.K., Informant__― K.H., Disguise Specialist__― M.H., Medic__― T.S.) You may use your own equipment for the test. For additional equipment, apply to the examiner. _

_Note: Collect your equipment from the starting point. Assessment will be made by examiner's report, candidates own reports in the duration of and after the mission and other candidate's reports and comments. This test is undertaken at your own risk. The Allied Families are not responsible for any mutilation, death or trauma as a result of the test. Three things constitute to immediate failure and the possibility of being put on the Allied Families' hit list; 1. Revealing classified information; 2. Killing or maiming innocents, hostages or fellow candidates; 3. Death. _

_― Allied Families' Recruitment Test: 2017, Briefing for Candidate #027. Taken from the classified Vongola Archives._

* * *

He wasn't in the habit of attacking women ―those herbivores generally burst into tears and god-awful shrieking that hurt his ears, were always in groups, hence the noise from when they got attacked was multiplied by several times, and in general, not worth the effort. It helped that most of them kept a distance from him and were smart enough to avoid pissing him off. Still, he had no qualms about beat the girl with short, red hair down, breaking her arms in two places and delivering serious bruising to her shoulder. She blacked out from pain before he could continue and he stepped past her fallen form, black shoes silent against the dirty concrete floor.

Hibari Kyouya sniffed in disgust, ramming his tonfa into the man's gut, forcing him to double over as he proceeded. Calmly, methodically, he whacked the bald man over the head, dislocated his shoulder and broke his knee in three smooth, swift strikes. He screamed, convulsing in pain as he hunched over the oversized teacup that herbivores rode for fun and was said to make them dizzy (why they would want to do such a thing, he had no idea, but then again, that was none of Hibari's business). He wasn't nice enough to put the man out of his misery, so he settled for putting his twin in similar pain.

Really, that Vongola, trying to place a tracker on him after they hired him. Granted, Hibari hadn't noticed it until halfway through his mission, but he consoled himself with the fact that they were probably freaking out over the lost tracker by now.

Those herbivores, thinking that they could use him outside of what he was paid for.

They had known the general location, but were too herbivorous to pursue the criminals themselves. He scoffed, breaking a clarinet into pieces as it crunched under his foot, grey-blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. There was a fat yellow bird flitting overhead and Hibari briefly toyed with the idea of smacking it down, noisy little creature, before decided that it wasn't worth it.

He belonged, if Hibari remembered correctly, to the man who was, for some reason or another ―Hibari wasn't very interested ―bleeding through his nose even before he managed to snap the man's neck. The bird flew to the remains of a demolished wall, staring at him with beady black eyes. He glowered and it twittered.

"I'll bite you to death!" Hibari's brow creased, his phrase having been stolen from him by the tiny, bird-brained creature. It blinked at him innocently, completely unaware that it had just _mauled_ Hibari's favorite phrase.

He had come to this god forsaken country to be made fun of by a damn bird.

Not that he had really had a choice. His violence got a bit too much for Namimori; cops had been authorized to use guns against him and there was a warrant for his arrest for 'destruction and vandalism of public and private property, assault of a police officer, civil servants and civilians, extortion and blackmail'. The Vongola Mafia Family had offered him respite. Work for them and they would get rid of his warrant. Naturally, he refused.

He was Hibari Kyouya. He would not bow down and become anybody's dog. Then Kusakabe caught up to him and had them come to a compromise. They would grant him passage to Italy and he would, in return, carry out a few jobs for them. Nothing he couldn't refuse, but he would at least complete for them a job a year. They accepted, knowing they had very little to lose; the flight was easy to arrange and if he became a liability, they could simply cut him off.

It still irritated him to no end. He pressed at the ear piece at his year, informing his second-on-command that he was proceeding. Kusakabe had been unusually tense since arriving in Italy. Hibari attributed it to the heightened level of danger they were under, dismissing it easily. But at the very least, he would sporadically, during the course of the mission, ensure Kusakabe Tetsuya would not pull out his pompadour in anxiety in the meantime. It was irritating to think that Tetsuya believed that he might lose, but Hibari took it in stride since it was Kusakabe.

Honestly, these jobs were boring to him. Sure, he got to bite people to death, but none of them were even near strong enough to be able to reach him. It was nice, being able to indulge in pointless violence and having someone to clean up the mess for him, but it wasn't nearly as interesting at biting to death those that threatened the peace and security of Namimori. _That_ was far more satisfying.

"Herbivores! Herbivores!" He lowered his tonfa, squinting at the bird contemplatively. If he recalled right, those birds could sing… He motioned it over with his finger and it complied. It had been a few years since he had heard anyone sing the song and it would be nice to hear it again, not just from a cold electronic device, but a living breathing being, even if it was feathery and yellow and was beginning to annoy him.

"The green tail of Namimori…"

* * *

Kokuyo Fun Land was an old amusement park, wildly popular several years ago. Nowadays, that plot of land was mortgaged to the bank, technically still open, but so rundown and forgotten that, when Tsuna hailed a cab, the driver had to pull out a directory.

It really was in a horrible part of the town, he mused, climbing the concrete path that was now almost completely hidden from view by overgrown vegetation. While he had planned to get off the cab before they reached his destination, to scout the area, the driver had declared the roads impassible and had promptly ejected Tsuna from inside the cab.

The fences that surrounded the abandoned amusement park were made of wire, rusted barbed wire haphazardly thrown over it; Tsuna grimaced, thinking that the Fun Land might have never had much business. He could see the rickety, unimpressive Ferris wheel of rusted steel and faded red paint, the gloom that seemed to permeate the air and the way it all seemed to be coated in a grey haze of must, a stark contrast with the lush, rich vegetation that was beginning to overtake it. Crows cawed every now and then, their cries adding to the creepy, chilly atmosphere. He gingerly picked his way through the wilderness that surrounded the presumed base of the criminals.

He wondered if anyone else in the examination had reached yet. There were some who looked as if they would just burst in from the front and Tsuna hoped to God that they would at least provide the kidnappers some sort of distraction to cover him. It felt a little unkind, but Tsuna couldn't help but think that this might be easier alone.

He pulled out at certain part of the fence as he circled the perimeter of the grounds, grinning triumphantly when it came loose to provide him a big enough hole to crawl through. Tsuna went through it with little difficulty, dusting dirt and leaves from his clothes when he made it through. He carefully scanned the area.

The grounds were wide and the only hiding places were the attractions themselves. Tsuna grimaced at the idea of trying to escape. It wouldn't be easy. He dashed across the dusty fairgrounds that were littered with moldy, half eaten popcorn and fliers, wheedling into the abandoned haunted house with no little anxiety.

He had never liked haunted houses and the eerie atmosphere of this one ―giant, deranged clown grinning madly from overhead, real cobwebs mixed with the fakes and the unyielding darkness from within the attraction itself― only served to amplify those feelings. He crept over the flimsy, metal steps, through the faded cloth tape that marked the vacant queue.

Guns always left Tsuna uncomfortable, but her let its uneasy weight transfer from his shoulder holster to his waiting palm anyway. He found the control room easily enough and he settled under the control panel. Tsuna plugged his phone ―the one unmonitored by Vongola ―into the system. Well, attempted to.

God, this place was ancient, Tsuna cursed. No internet and the jack was outdated for his wire. Frustration set in and he buried his face into his knees. He had to do this the old-fashioned way then, he sighed, plucking an abandoned pamphlet from way underneath the control panel, covered in dust.

He coughed lightly at the dust it raised as he smoothed it out. The Ferris Wheel would be a good place to stake out, he supposed. It provided an excellent vantage point, the advantage of high ground and a possible angle for a sneak attack and sniping. On the other hand, it was very possible to get stuck up there and it didn't have a view of the entire amusement park, which he had noted as he had picked his way through the amusement park earlier. Despite that, he was still fairly sure that they would put someone up there…

Which meant that their base was likely to be close to it with a completely unobstructed view, he mused as he let his finger trace over the faded, worn pictures. The teacups were completely exposed, an unlikely choice. The merry-go-rounds were out for the same reason. The underground cave, complete with artificial river, would probably be moldy from the humidity, though he wouldn't rule it out since it only had one entry point and was therefore easier to defend. Either of the three diners was probable, he supposed, since they still had running water and would even have a place for them to store food. The roller coaster platform was sheltered, as was the bumper cars, all within close distance of a cafeteria and-!

Tsuna was abruptly broken out of his musings by a beeping from the hand phone he had been issued earlier. He hastily rummaged through his pockets and yanked it out, hurriedly, frantically, setting it to vibrate before looking at the message he had been sent.

_Send a report on your current status. Reports are expected every hour and failure to send them within ten minutes of the expected time will cause you to be listed as missing in action, possibly dead. _

Tsuna fumbled with the buttons immediately. Failure to send in a report would also lead to a drop in evaluation, the message implicitly told him. He typed, re-typed, then stared at the message, wondering if it might be too little information.

_Currently in Kokuyo Fun Land Horror House. Will attempt determine specific location of base and possible patrol. _

One of the lessons he had taken under Uni was how to send a report, but he _was_ supposed to be new to the mafia. There was no unnecessary information, but not nearly enough to be useful either. He paused over the keyboard and an idea abruptly struck him. He sent out the message with haste, then plucked out a number from the prepared contact list, punching at the green phone symbol with one hand his other tightly gripped on his handgun as he listened to the rings. _Support and Logistics__― S.K._. The person on the other end of the line picked up just as the window to the control room broke into pieces.

* * *

The leafy foliage swayed overhead, heat stifling the air and dripping down the side of his head. Camping in the damp, humid forest, on his hand and knees and up to his armpits in mud, Gokudera scowled over his cigarette, his long, white fingers playing over a stick of dynamite. At his side, Ryohei was mumbling about how incredibly boring it was, how he needed to get moving and boxing like Gokudera wasn't feeling the same way. One of their examiners, a self-important teenager of maybe fifteen, wearing a cow print dress shirt under a blazer, sat in the tree overhead, yawning every now and then, completely disregarding Gokudera's protests that hanging up there would only cause them to get spotted.

So maybe this wasn't what he had in mind when he told his father that he was going to enter the mafia under his own power. But it was a damn lot better than remaining by his father's side.

It was still irritating that his sister was in the Alliance and he would be judged based on her, compared to her, but it was better than having to be weighed against to his father. He knew he wasn't exactly being fair to Bianchi. Even if she wasn't a bastard child of a half-blood, as a woman, she got more than her fair share of problems. Men of the mafia tended to be prideful and very traditional, unwilling to submit to a woman, even if she was their superior and could break their necks before they could blink.

Her childhood wasn't easy either, her mother and their father had a loveless marriage, marred by frequent, one-sided fights, fits that provoked no reaction, spontaneous shopping trips to Paris, long, unforeseen and frankly worrying disappearances and affairs on both sides. Bianchi worked hard to get to where she was, even as her mother threw numerous suitors of varying degrees of chauvinism, arrogance and ugliness in her way. To be compared to her, strong, capable, reputable 'Poison Scorpion' Bianchi, could even be an honor.

More than anything, the way she was able to rise above each and every obstacle in her way, come out on top, made him jealous, envious because _why couldn't I be like that _and _why can't I do that_ was always hovering in his mind whenever she accomplished something or whenever they were compared. He knew he fell short, knew he fell flat, even next to the immovable, charismatic Boss that was his father. It was petty, he knew, to avoid her for that when it wasn't her fault and she had always treated him well, apart from force feeding him poison cookies, the best out of the entire blood family.

But she periodically refused to listen to him, continued to baby him and always listened to their father without questioning anything. Her loyalty to the family was immovable, but she still fell short of perfect. Trident Shamal, his childhood hero, the man who refused to baby him and treated him as anyone else, fell short too. He needed to become perfect, follow the one who was perfect(the one he hadn't found yet) then he would finally be free of the chains of the Family and the shackles of family.

So here he was, camping in the damp, humid forest, on his hand and knees and up to his armpits in mud.

"This is extremely boring," Ryohei muttered for the fiftieth time from where he was laying on his belly.

He wasn't a bad guy, Sasagawa Ryohei. Even though he was blockheaded and loud, he had a good heart. When Gokudera first met him, it was outside of building for the Vongola Family, where the boxer was arguing with a pretty, wide-eyed girl and her sophisticated-looking friend. The two women entered the building in a huff and the odd, Japanese man stood outside, looking desolate as an abandoned puppy. Then he opened his mouth.

"I will find out what you are up to, to the extreme!" Gokudera was promptly taken by the shoulders and not-so-politely asked to hand over his entry card. It took several minutes of shouting, rude gesturing, being on the receiving end of disapproving, curious looks for Ryohei to understand that Gokudera, in fact, _didn't_ have an employee's pass and that Ryohei could, in fact, just walk up to the receptionist to request a visitor's pass if he required one.

When he divulged his purpose in entering the Vongola Building in the first place, to register for the Allies' Recruitment Test, Ryohei had joined him. His logic went like this: "I can better find out what Kyoko is hiding from me if I joined the same company as her. The same company, which, upon joining, she began to keep secrets from me. Besides, I was looking for a job anyway. To the extreme." It didn't even seem to occur to the boxer that the very unusual and dangerous recruitment method might somehow be connected to what his sister was hiding. Not that Gokudera cared.

Ryohei was a civilian, even if his sister was in the Vongola and he was more predisposed to violence than not, meaning that to disclose information about the mafia to him would be breaking the Omerta. He had only realized he was applying for the mafia this morning, when the murmurs from the rest of the candidates had finally sunk in. After an hour. God, Gokudera hoped stupidity wasn't contagious.

Somehow, without his meaning to or realizing it, the pair of them formed a friendship of sorts. One that was filled with insults and impatience, eye-rolling and shouting matches, but there was some sort of bond there. A bond that resisted Gokuera's short temper and violent habits. And it felt nice, even if Gokudera would rather bite his tongue off than admit it. He had never had a friend, even a sort-of friend before. And Ryohei was blissfully oblivious of the mafia and his history, so there was no hidden message, no implied meaning to his words when he spoke. Not that there would be, even if he did know all of that; Sasagawa Ryohei wouldn't know subtleness even if it hit him on his head with a brick and danced naked in front of him.

"This is extremely boring," Ryohei muttered for the fifty-first time in the hour they had been sitting there. A vein throbbed at Gokudera's temple.

"We all know that turf-head! We don't need you to remind us every other minute!" Lambo raised a brow from his perch on the tree and promptly moved from his position to disappear into the forest. Gokudera groaned, hauling Ryohei to his feet as he began to move as well. An amateur mistake, giving away his position due to the inability to stay put, wasn't something he could afford. Cursing and hissing under his breath, he didn't look back when a loud, animalistic snarl sounded from the direction he was fleeing from. He paused, then turned to Ryohei.

Ryohei was barely out of sight when a flurry of limbs came at him and Gokudera leapt back, his arm grazed in his clumsy attempt to block it. Blonde hair and bared teeth, a bloodthirsty, carnal roar was all Gokudera managed to catch as he yanked out a handful of dynamite with the other hand, haste and panic marring his aim.

It wasn't an animal like he had originally thought it was. It was a person; messy gold hair, claw marks over his cheek, claws like a big cat, teeth that resembled fangs and an animalistic glint in his eyes. Gokudera narrowed his eyes, backing away slowly, even as more bombs materialized into his hands. He grit his teeth, praying that his would work, bouncing dynamite off the trees with astounding accuracy and forcing the other to leap back. Leap back and straight into Ryohei's line of fire.

The _Maximum Canon_, as Ryohei called it, was something that seemed out of this world. It had its faults, of course; it took a long time to get it ready and made him useless for a while after, whether the shot connected or not. It still defied common sense, though Ryohei claimed that it was all result of the training under a proficient master. But whether Gokudera could wrap his head around the phenomenon was a different thing altogether. The truth was that a stream of yellow light burst forth from the boxer's fist like a laser canon, throwing their opponent through a line a trees and rendered him unconscious.

This still presented a problem, since that blonde, tanned guy probably had his allies nearby and they had effectively given away their exact location with that stream of yellow light and the path of fallen trees. Gokudera pulled out his phone and quickly identified their attacker as Joshima Ken. He fingered the button, musing over a text message before hitting send to all of the other candidates and the examiners.

_With Sasagawa Ryohei. Gave away our position. Captured Joshima Ken._

He contemplated the order of the sentences, wondering if it would help their result. Well, he figured it wouldn't matter anyway; that curly haired guy with the cow-print shirt would report the exact sequence of events to the other examiners anyway. Meanwhile, Ryohei was busying himself with tying their assailant to a tree, working at the steel reinforced rope Gokudera had given him with surprising ease.

Properly tied down, sporting a black eye and what seemed to be several first degree burns, their prisoner began to groggily regain consciousness, groaning in pain as he did so. Now, Gokudera pondered, what to do with him? He must have spoken out loud because a moment later, Ryohei replied. His tone was factual, no-nonsense and innocent and both Gokudera and Joshima Ken paled a bit.

That day, Gokudera learnt what Ryohei did to his sister's unwanted suitors behind her back.

* * *

Fuuta de la Stella was a widely known informant, exceedingly talented and highly regarded in the dangerous field of providing information to the mafia. He was also twelve years old.

His family was heavily involved in the business of information regarding the underworld. His mother came from a long line of CIA agents; she had defected to the American Mafia half a decade into her career in law enforcement. His father was a renowned tracker, generally aiding hit men, assassins and bosses in locating targets and scouting locations.

Held in a dingy, tiny toilet cubicle with a tray of food pushed under his door and the constant pacing to remind him that he was being watched, Fuuta silently prayed for them, for someone, anyone to save him. He crouched into the corner of the toilet, far from the door, the captor, into the corner that wasn't wet and didn't smell of pee, he clutched the white, slender, ice-cold hand of his fellow prisoner from under walls of the toilet cubicle.

The hands of the girl who wasn't allowed to speak, whose face he had ever seen. His hand was sweaty and his arm was aching, but instead of simply letting go, he swapped hands. Fuuta didn't want to let go completely, he was afraid she might disappear if he did.

He had briefly wondered if it might be a corpse's hand he might have been holding, _she was so cold_,but the hand had squeezed his tighter when the loud, brash guard had argued with the quiet, cool one. He had also felt her arm move as he body reached for the food whenever the trays were slid into their cell.

He wondered how long they had been stuck there; it had to have been at least a week? There was no sunlight, only a flickering light bulb on a wire as it cast shadows this way and that. The grimy, damp floors, the constant dripping sound of water from a leaky faucet, the occasional pacing; all of it accumulated to form an endless stream of looming fear and trepidation that seemed to stretch on to eternity.

The disembodied voice in his head, was reassuring, almost as reassuring as the ice-cold hand in his grasp. This was the voice that took him through the Ranking Planet, the memory palace he had constructed. All of the things that happened in the present and the past were meticulously catalogued and placed on this imaginary planet inside his head, churning out statistics and likelihoods as he let the little characters dance and play on this playground. His imagination fueled and animated them and his intelligence judged their closeness to reality and spewed numbers across the land of lava and ice, lakes of mercury and air and sky of concrete clouds. It was fantastical, imaginary and always hit the mark.

This was the Little Prince's true talent, the ability to draw connections and calculate probabilities. For him, the Ranking Planet was more real than reality.

The chances of his getting out of this place would normally be very low. But taking into account what he knew about ongoing affairs…The Vongola Alliance was having their recruitment test right about now and it was very likely that this would be their mission… As the resident Special Informant of the Vongola, he had gone through the list of candidates and a few in particular were very promising.

But there was one name that resounded with the Ranking Planet, the one little stick figure that morphed the earth, parted the seas, softened the skies and tamed this reality. Hundreds upon hundreds of scenarios and alternative realities took place upon the planet that could reset at Fuuta's whim, but the possibilities that he generated on his own were more than the rest combined. Unlike the others, with more research Fuuta did on him, the more the possible futures appeared. Knowledge of him did not eliminate possibilities, it bred them.

That was why no one else knew that he was the son of CEDEF leader. That was why no one knew he was part of Europol's Millefiore. That was why no one questioned. Because a little boy decided it would be better for them not to know. It was a security leak, to be sure, but Fuuta trusted the Ranking Planet so long as unexpected weather did not occur because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make it rain on the Ranking Planet. Maybe that was because the clouds were concrete in order to be etched with numbers.

But no matter. Fuuta would wait because he knew he was a lot smarter than anyone gave him credit for and he trusted the Ranking Planet so long as it wasn't raining and he couldn't hear any rain or thunder from outside wherever he was being held. Even if he was a scared and a bit cowardly, even if his captors hurled abuse, even if the Ranking Planet was slowly breaking apart under the physical and mental pressure of the situation as trauma set in, Fuuta would wait for Sawada Tsunayoshi.

He only hoped that he came in time.


End file.
